


Ships In The Night

by CopperBeech



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Comfort Sex, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Drinking & Talking, Gay Bar, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Implied Snake Shenanigans, M/M, One Night Stands, Pining, The Blitz, Touch-Starved, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:46:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22296529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech
Summary: An unlikely pair leave a gay bar together during the Blitz.Or, a demon experiences Temptation, and a con artist and virtuoso seducer learns something about selflessness.“Depends how you define new. Been with men, women, Silurians, cyborgs, took a shot at a space whale once, but I think you’d be my first demon.”“How – “ Had he heard that right?Harkness lifted his glass again in a salute to something, possibly himself. “I’ve done a lot more travelling than most people you meet.”  He barely looked old enough to be drinking, much less have traveled further than across the Atlantic on a troopship, except for the merry little crows’-feet that crinkled with every inflection of his smile; they suggested hours in the cockpit, squinting into the sun. “So. What about it?”
Relationships: Crowley (Good Omens)/Jack Harkness
Comments: 110
Kudos: 185





	Ships In The Night

**Author's Note:**

> Jack Harkness and Crowley were both in London during the Blitz. Just saying.
> 
> We find them in an underground bar a few days before both of them will have to do something heroic.
> 
> And yes, I absolutely was doing that with the title.

“Well, _hello._ Haven’t seen you here before.”

Crowley had thought he was projecting a huge cloud of Minding His Own Business, hunched on the barstool with his elbows on the bar and glass cradled in both hands. He was working out a problem and it wasn’t yielding. Edie’s was, for most of the men there, a place to meet, dance, couple, let themselves be themselves; lately, for him, it had become a favourite place to do a bit of thinking. This Yank pilot clearly had other ideas.

“‘Course, it _could_ be because it’s my first time in here. But I see why I came.” A palm extended, that brash American spirit that always seemed ready to make friends with the world. “Captain Jack Harkness. Previously Army Air Force, now liaising with the RAF. But available for other liaisons.” The man was almost absurdly good-looking, film-star good-looking, with the little cleft in the chin that seemed to be the current ideal in masculine beauty, a dimpled smile, dark, dancing eyes that took in everything. “And what’s your name? So I can call you something besides ‘handsome.’ ”

Somehow he was shaking the extended hand. “Ah – Anthony. Anthony Crowley, and, uh, I think you – I mean – not exactly available, don’t want you getting the wrong idea – “ For some reason their hands were still clasped together. An odd, considering look crossed the man’s face, as if he divined something from the contact. “I just – come here for a drink because it’s, ah, comfortable.”

“ ‘Exactly’ is a qualifier, Anthony. Opens up a world of possibilities.”

Crowley finally reclaimed his hand and steadied himself with a good gulp of the Scotch. Hard to get in wartime, word was that even the Scots were running out, but Edie always had the ones he liked. He saw to it.

“If you’re alive, you’re available.” The pilot waved to the barkeep and hoisted himself onto the adjacent seat, sweeping his greatcoat back behind him with conscious dash.

“S’pose you could say that,” Crowley ventured as if this were a philosophical debate. He wasn’t sure why, but there was something special about this American airman, beyond his ridiculous good looks – the flawless, boyish cheeks, the hair tousled just enough over his broad forehead. He’d noticed that pilots could get anything they wanted most days, though it might be just the wartime desperation to live at least a little, when bombs were falling every night and men flew into the heavens and sometimes stayed there. “How often does this work?”

Harkness rolled his eyes up and pursed his lips in an exaggerated thoughtful expression; held up his left hand palm inward, and began to count off on the fingers one by one, folding them in as he ticked each with the other hand. “Hold your hands up, gorgeous,” he said, and Crowley realized he’d complied just a second too late to snatch his hands back. Was this how people felt when he tempted them?

Touching was the point of this manoeuvre, and it was electric and exciting; when was the last time he’d touched anyone for more than a passing moment? Years? Decades? He’d reached a point where there was only one being on Earth he thought about touching, and he didn’t know when that could ever happen. The American’s hands were warm, dry, strong. He reached the last finger of Crowley’s second hand, gave a shrug. “Can’t go any further unless one of us undresses,” he said. “Even here I don’t think they’d let us do that.”

Crowley found himself laughing. And when had _that_ happened last? He spent all his time worrying these days. Trying to track the activities of one feckless, fearless angel, aching for sleep, rarely daring.

“We could make a start. Peek behind those glasses? Bet you’ve got beautiful eyes.”

A playful finger touched the nosepiece, but waited for permission. Crowley’s hand went up, drew Harkness’s away.

“Definitely modest. Show ’em to me in private?”

Damn. He was still holding the pilot’s hand. A slow stroke of thumb over his palm wasn’t quite rude and wasn’t quite not.

“ ‘fraid I’m in barracks, but I know a few places. Think the raids have stopped for the night, too.”

“Mine’s close,” Crowley heard his own voice saying, almost unrecognizable. “I mean – “

_What the Heaven?_

“See, it works,” winked Harkness, sipping. “Mph, good stuff, can’t waste it. Take your time.”

The fingers were lazily counting over his again. Somehow the American’s ankle was hooked behind his own, knuckles were brushing as he toasted _new adventure_ and clinked glasses.

“Don’t ‘spect _you_ call this a new adventure.”

He hadn’t felt this at ease in years. If you’d asked him ten minutes ago whether he would have ever left Edie’s with anyone except Aziraphale – who wouldn’t have been in here in the first place – he’d have been horrified, but somehow, with this man, nothing seemed wrong.

“Depends how you define _new._ Been with men, women, Silurians, cyborgs, took a shot at a space whale once, but I think you’d be my first demon.”

 _“How – “_ Had he heard that right?

Harkness lifted his glass again in a salute to something, possibly himself. “I’ve done a lot more travelling than most people you meet.” He barely looked old enough to be drinking, much less have traveled further than across the Atlantic on a troopship, except for the merry little crows’-feet that crinkled with every inflection of his smile; they suggested hours in the cockpit, squinting into the sun. “So. What about it?”

* * *

Crowley had liked Americans ever since they were invented. He hadn’t planned on talking to anyone, just listening to the music while getting medium arseholed and going home to bed for a few hours, but the side glance he’d made on hearing that accent, the curious look he’d given the man’s odd chronometer – gadgets always fascinated, and the airmen certainly had them – and now –

Medium arseholed…not _quite_ check. Just enough to feel warm, limber. Home to bed… check.

Except… not alone.

His stomach fluttered.

He’d drawn the blackout curtains before leaving; dared a low light. Harkness, hands still in his greatcoat pockets, whistled as he turned in a three-sixty. “Nice place.”

Everything about Crowley’s flat was rich, and stark, and tasteful; it was also, conspicuously, a place for only one person. One chair, one glass sitting beside a bottle on the marble tabletop. He snapped surreptitiously and duplicated it, quilted Irish crystal. “You can pull in a bit of dosh in wartime if you know where to find things. ‘N I do.”

“Look forward to a demonstration.” Harkness shrugged out of his greatcoat, laid it over one arm of the sofa. British uniform, close-fitting and trim-waisted, suited him; the captain’s wings glinted in the low light.

“So…?” He gestured at his temple. “Promised.”

Crowley remembered doing no such thing, but in for a penny. Slowly he lifted a hand to the glasses, paused a moment, and drew them off.

“Flashy,” said Harkness. “Looks good on you.”

“Weren’t always this way…”

“Whatever they looked like before, I’d call it an upgrade.”

He’d been about to pour again for both of them. He found himself taking a step toward the American instead. Harkness caught the hand he’d dropped at the threshold of Edie’s place, drew the fingertips across his own lips, kissed gently.

“You can pretend it’s him, if you want,” he said. “I won’t be hurt.”

“Him?” Crowley found he had begun to trace the line of the flawless cheek, stopped.

“The one you’re _not exactly available_ about. Not jealous. You looked lonely. On top of gorgeous.”

He bent his head.

 _Satan,_ the man could kiss. Crowley hesitated for a fraction of a second, then opened wolfishly, his hand sliding off Harkness’ cheek to his nape. The American was right; his heart wanted Aziraphale in a constant ache, but his mulish corporation was hungry, _so_ hungry. One moment he was pulling tighter into the kiss with his hand at the back of the other man’s head, the next he had Harkness backed up to the wall, fingers digging into the curve of his arse, pressed against him with an excitement so sudden it was painful.

“Well, answers my question,” Harkness said when he finally got some air.

“And your question was…?” Crowley’s lips were close to his ear, so that he barely had to breathe the words.

“Just wanted to know how you like it. I’m versatile.”

“So’m I,” said Crowley.

* * *

“Wow. You weren’t fooling. That’s one heck of a big snake, Anthony. Wait – no, don’t change back yet. Gave me an idea.”

* * *

“No _kidding._ Whole package?”

“Check for yourself.”

“Oh, _niiice._ Pleased to meet you, Miss – ”

“Ashtoreth.”

* * *

“ _Not_ a heroic airman. Just came here to run a few scams. Sell a piece of fancy junk, get out before the whole place goes up…That was the plan anyway… I… I don’t know. Watching them… they put up such a fight for what they love. Makes me start to ask questions.”

“That’s when all the trouble starts. You can take it from me.”

“Oh, I _will.”_

* * *

“See, I think I know what he’s going to do. ‘N’if I’m right, there’s only one way to keep him safe. ‘S gonna hurt.” Crowley passed the whisky back. By now they were just drinking from the neck of the bottle. ”Every time. Turn my back for a minute, he’ll do something brave and stupid.”

“How long’s this been going on?”

“Y’couldn’t imagine.”

“Try me.”

“Six thousand years. Give or take.”

Harkness was silent for a long moment.

"You're right, I _can't_ imagine... I've traveled a lot farther in time. But I didn't have to _live_ through it..."

“This thing.” It wasn’t a chronometer. Exactly.

“Yeah. Stole it from my old job. What do you say here? _Nicked._ I’m a good nicker.”

“So…not from the States, then. From someplace where all this's -- already happened?”

“Maybe. Sometimes you hit divergent timelines.”

“Gettin’ away from me now. Have s’more of this.”

“And he’s really an –– “

“Angel. Only one that isn’t a complete and total wanker.”

“What’s he like?”

“Ah, collects old books... gets bitchy when he’s hungry, can’t help blessing everything in sight, a little bit lazy, soft…” Crowley’s voice became tenderer with each phrase, all but trailed off. “Kind,” he finally added.

“Sounds adorable.”

“And thinks he’s Richard Bloody Hannay, trying to play the Great Game. I have to keep cracking codes and intercepting messages to find out what he’s up to, before he gets himself discorporated and his Head Office rakes him over the coals – worse, if they recalled him – “

“And you've never said – ?”

“We’re s’posed to be enemies. Have to pretend to everyone. Half the time, pretend to each other. I don’t know _how – “_

“Anthony. You just gotta put yourself in the right place at the right time. I’ve got a little experience with that. Don’t wait forever. Life’s uncertain. Just look outside.”

“We don’t… well, we don’t die. Just discorporate.”

“You said that twice now.”

“ ‘N then come back. They issue us a new one.”

“Damn, where do I sign up? That’d be handy.”

“It’s just how we’re made.”

“Sure you’re not from Gallifrey?”

“Nope. Where’s that? Anywhere near Alpha Centauri?”

“Good way further out.”

“Shame. Helped make that one.”

“Now _you’re_ losing _me.”_

“No ‘m’not, you’re right there.”

“...Hm, something else is coming back.”

Harkness pulled the demon back down to him.

* * *

“Staff meeting at 0900. Gotta stop back by the barracks first. Where –– oh, here.”

_“Mmmmph. ‘Ziraphale.”_

“Anthony? You awake?”

“Haven’t slept, so long… keepin’ an eye out…”

“Not gonna be much good to anybody like that. Get some rest. I know my way.”

“ ’kay. Ah – I – “

Harkness seemed to know what he was about to say next.

“I’m not here to be a problem to you. Won’t see me again. Moving on soon anyway.”

The Captain paused in the middle of buttoning up and knelt for a soft kiss.

“Thanks for a fantastic night. And… Anthony?”

“Mmmmph?” Sleep was already claiming the demon again.

“Go on taking care of what you love. I’m just beginning to see it myself. Some things are worth fighting for.”

_finis_

**Author's Note:**

> A few days after this interlude, Jack Harkness would lay his life on the line to protect Earth from alien weaponry, and Crowley would enter a certain church...
> 
> And many years in his own future, Harkness would find himself hurled back to Victorian England with a broken vortex manipulator, ready to live through the century-plus that it would take for him to meet Rose and the Doctor again.
> 
> Tip o' the pen to Indieninja92, who invented Edie's for a far more sublime Blitz fic, In The Pocket Of The Universe https://archiveofourown.org/works/19979182/chapters/47298121. My version is clearly an AU, since it's Crowley and not Aziraphale who knows the place. Thanks for letting me borrow!
> 
> If you liked, share, reblog, comment! Authors are always thirsty ;)
> 
> Come say hello on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech


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